


To Kill Your King

by hamstercheese7



Category: One Piece
Genre: 1500s-1600s era, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Assassination, Ballroom Dancing, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, Historical Dress, Love, M/M, Masks, One Shot, OnePieceAdmiralsWeek2020, Party, Shakespearean Tragedy, Stabbing, Star-crossed, theatrical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26532418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamstercheese7/pseuds/hamstercheese7
Summary: Day 5: Party || Historical AUAs the music came to an end, they bowed, neither deep, nor shallow, a perfect balance, Kuzan’s breath catching for just a moment as the Red King brought his hand to his lips before the entire court. As they parted ways, threading back into the fabric of the crowd, their gazes locked and Kuzan knew the stage had been set for their final act.The balcony at the stroke of midnight.Written for One Piece Admirals Week 2020.
Relationships: Akainu | Sakazuki/Aokiji | Kuzan
Kudos: 9
Collections: One Piece Admirals Week 2020





	To Kill Your King

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 5 of One Piece Admirals Week 2020, prompt Party || Historical AU.

He knew him by the broad swell of his shoulders, by his stance, feet sure, shoulders back, center of mass low. Always a soldier, even if his garb was intended to disguise his identity. Kuzan eyed Sakazuki from the edge of the grand ballroom, the edges of his blue mask hovering in the corners of his vision. A reminder of his role.

Couples whirled and spun across the hall, their colorful and bejeweled ensembles like paint swirling beneath the adorned frescoes and the ornate depiction of cherubs and angels in the Kingdom of God high above their heads. 

But none would draw the eye as he was about to. 

He strode across the floor, the shimmering satin of his blue cape rippling behind him. His presence was demanding, authority draped his every move. Kuzan supposed that that was not supposed to be his role. He should stick to the shadows, be a mere fly, unremarkable, blend among the other sycophants so as not to draw the eye.

But that was not him, never him. For all the years of his relaxed demeanor, he never failed to make his presence known, though he wondered how many knew him now. 

It mattered not, after all, only one need know him.

He swept through the crowd, the dancers parting around him like a cresting wave as he came to roost in front of the man dressed as a king. Knighted in red and gold, the Bauta Mask disguised his face but Kuzan knew him and would be known by him, for better or for worse.

The hall reduced to whispers as he, dressed in the bright blue of dawn, knelt with the slightest bend of his knees, the merest incline of his head, hand outstretched in a timeless gesture of invitation toward the sun.

Dark eyes, gaze like fire raked over him, so familiar as to pull an ache from his chest, a throb in his shoulder, old scars set aflame once again for an instant before white gloved fingers entwined with Kuzan’s own black ones. 

They stepped onto the floor, resplendent red and vivacious blue. 

What a sight they made. The man in the mask of the Red King, proud and fearless to clad himself in something so royal when the crux of the Masquerade was to subsume one’s identity entirely and be birthed as another anew, if only for a night; and the man who chose to cloth himself as the modest servant, though so bold as to ask for the King’s hand.

Around and around they twirled, their steps mirrored one another, a timeless dance that swelled and ebbed. Their eyes met over and over, slow and smooth with the rising tide of the violins and the organ, hands meeting to caress and grasp with the lute and the harp. 

They knew the steps so well, having learned them together long ago, in this very hall. Though Sakazuki had been dressed in black then, and Kuzan in white, the garb of their Noble Houses stitched across their backs. Though only one was destined to be crowned King, all those years ago, the present felt so very far away. 

Sakazuki’s fingers were warm as they caught his own, their faces mere inches apart as he led them in the practiced steps of the minuet, Kuzan knowing on the next pass, he would mirror him. Each step careful, but sure.

It hadn’t always been that way, Sakazuki had been rough, graceless, force with no fluidity. In contrast, he had been too meek, too willing to let another guide him. But they learned how to properly measure their worth as they grew older. Sakazuki learning grace, and Kuzan learning resistance. 

Their eyes met, curiosity glowing in their depths at the tender age of sixteen when, for the very first time, their steps matched.

The music began to crescendo as their movements increased in pace, their touches longer, their gazes lingering. A sadness reached cold across Kuzan’s chest, this would be their last dance and yet it felt like their first. 

As the music came to an end, they bowed, neither deep, nor shallow, a perfect balance, Kuzan’s breath catching for just a moment as the Red King brought his hand to his lips before the entire court. As they parted ways, threading back into the fabric of the crowd, their gazes locked and Kuzan knew the stage had been set for their final act.

The balcony at the stroke of midnight.

\---

Kuzan wished he had fond memories of the dark corridors that he now trespassed on his way to meet with fate. Or destiny. He knew which one Sakazuki would choose to name their rendezvous. But they had never seen eye-to-eye on such discussions of mankind.

The windows overlooking the grounds were clear, the night sky glittering with stars. As he passed the fountain of the Grand Mother kneeling in prayer, the recollections came unbidden. The stables in the rain, the warm nights of the hunt, the touches that lingered too long as they learned the art of the sword.

The scar down his thigh ached as he climbed the stairs, spiraling up and up. Kuzan passed no others as he moved like a shadow, a wraith through the halls. And perhaps, he was. After all, he should be dead. 

The portraits of former Kings stared stoically outward as he passed below, grateful that his own face was not among them. In the years since his death, he had become one of the People, and found that he preferred their bluntness, their toil in the earth and soil. They had no time for The Game.

And that was why he was here, for them. 

The grand room at the end of the West Wing on the highest floor came into sight. He knew that Sakazuki would be behind its doors. Waiting. The final stretch of gilded walls were adorned with swords and spears, axes and crossbows. The weapons of war. It was fitting of a King known as the Red Wolf, the Conqueror. 

As they had grown, the art of war molding them in its likeness, the simplicity of youth fell away under the onslaught of enemy machinations, under the plots of their own families, power rendering everything in its path to the bone. 

The stench of the battlefield upon which he’d been left to die, bathed his senses as he continued toward the doors at the end of the hall. Like the implements of death he now passed, Kuzan steeled himself for what must come. For what he must do.

He would not fail to complete the task he was given, he would not show a moment of weakness like Sakazuki. After all, that was what had brought them here. To the now, as he turned the handle of the gilded door and stepped beyond.

The room was cloaked in shadow but for the veranda, anointed in moonlight. And there, standing upon it, was his Red King. 

Kuzan’s steps were sure as he came to stand beside him. The grand grounds of the Palace stretched below them, the torches of the city beyond the rippling river flickering like candles. The moon was so bright, it washed away their colors, their ranks, their positions, leaving only themselves hiding behind frivolous and fragile masks. 

He met Sakazuki’s eyes as the other reached for a wooden box balanced on the balustrade, the candelabra beside it with a sole lit candle flickering in the slight breeze. The box opened soundlessly, fingers plucked a cigar from its velvety depths. 

“Let me,” Kuzan whispered, a last act of duty to his king. His black gloved fingers took the vice from Sakazuki’s tender grip and held it over the candle, the tip flaring to bright embers. He held it out as an act of supplication. Sakazuki gazed at him, his dark eyes reflecting the warm ashes and Kuzan found that for a moment, his resolve was slipping. 

White gloved hands reached up to remove the Bauta from Sakazuki’s face, to reveal his true visage in the pale light of the Harvest Moon. The lines he now bore, the scars of battle, the tests of time, so different than their youth, but no less striking. Kuzan placed the cigar between his parted lips, the smoke curling up into the night, as Sakazuki reached for Kuzan’s mask. 

The clock tower struck midnight, the moon reached its zenith, and Kuzan struck.

The blood was dark as they sank as one to the floor, the knife deep, the handle glinting. Yet still Sakazuki reached for his mask. Kuzan let him pull it away and clatter to the floor. Their eyes met, the assassin and his mark, the servant tossed aside, the king cracked at their feet. White gloves stained with the black ink of blood stroked gently down Kuzan’s cheek, the tenderness in the act cracking the steel inside his heart. He grasped his lovers’ hand in his own.

Sakazuki would not die alone, not like the stories described his own death on the field of battle. Kuzan could grant him this kindness. With a soft smile, Sakazuki spoke his final words, “Good, at last, we are equal once more.”

When it was done, Kuzan slipped into the night, leaving his mask behind. Where he was going, he could only take his true countenance.

**Author's Note:**

> I had an absolute blast writing this! It was fun trying to write it in an older language style, capture the "theatrical" elements of it. 10/10 will probably do again. This piece was inspired by @ChiakiHamano1's art piece, [Masked Up](https://twitter.com/ChiakiHamano1/status/1306926459592667136).  
> This was written for Admiral Week 2020, thanks to the folks on the server for all their help!
> 
> Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and you can find me on twitter @buggyisbest


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